I was not immune. His political longevity and personal tenacity would be his legacy in Ireland.
He spoke more than everyone else combined, interrupting and interjecting, shifting and sidestepping every idea but his own. He’d introduced a new document he’d drafted during the break, an amendment that wasn’t much different from the Treaty, and insisted on its adoption. When it was rejected on the grounds that it was not the document that had been debated in private session, he threatened to resign as president, further muddying the question at hand. I knew my feelings about him were colored by my research, but I had to remind myself that he had not known how it would all play out. I had the advantage of hindsight, where history had already unfolded and pointed the finger of blame. The committee clearly held him in high regard; their respect was evident in their deference and in their attempts to appease him. But where de Valera was venerated, Michael Collins was loved.
Whenever Michael spoke, the people strained to hear, barely breathing so they wouldn’t miss it. It was as though our heartbeats synchronized, an inaudible drumbeat reverberating through the assembly, and it was like nothing I’d ever felt before. I’d read about some of Michael’s speeches, and I’d even seen a picture a photographer had snagged from a window above the crowd assembled to hear him speak in College Green in the spring of 1922. The picture had shown a small stage surrounded by a sea of hats, giving the appearance of pale, bobbing balls, every head covered, nothing else visible. The numbers were fewer in the chamber, but the effect was the same; his energy and conviction commanded attention.
The public debates droned on. Arthur Griffith, gray-faced and ailing—he reminded me of a slimmer Theodore Roosevelt with his handlebar mustache and circular glasses—was the most adept at holding de Valera accountable, and when he came to Michael’s defense after a particularly nasty attack by Cathal Brugha, the minister for defense, the entire room erupted in applause that didn’t end for several minutes.
I’d been wrong about one thing. These were not average men and women. Time had not given them a gloss they had not earned. Even those I wanted to loathe, based on my own research and conclusions, conducted themselves with fervor and honest conviction. These weren’t posing politicians. They were patriots whose blood and sacrifice deserved history’s pardon and Ireland’s compassion.
“History really doesn’t do them justice. It doesn’t do any of you justice,” I murmured to Thomas, who regarded me with ancient eyes.
“Will we make Ireland better? In the end, will we have accomplished that?” he asked quietly.
I didn’t think Ireland would ever improve upon the likes of Arthur Griffith, Michael Collins, and Thomas Smith. She would never know better men, but she would know better days. “You will make her freer.”
“That’s enough for me,” he whispered.
In the last hour of the final day of debates, Michael Collins closed the proceedings and asked the Dáil for a vote to accept the Treaty or to reject it.
De Valera, though he’d already had his time on the floor, sought the last word, warning the Dáil that the Treaty would “rise up in judgment against them.” His attempt at a final oratorical flourish was cut off.
“Let the Irish nation judge us now and in future years,” Michael said, silencing him, and I felt the pangs of doubt and the weight of a nation pressing on every person in attendance. One by one, the elected representatives from every constituency cast their votes. The result was sixty-four in favor of the Treaty, fifty-seven against.
Like distant thunder, a cheer rose up in the streets when the result was announced, but within the chamber there was no gloating or gleeful celebration. The collective heartbeat stuttered and slowed, and one by one, became a cacophony of disparate rhythms.
“I wish to resign immediately,” de Valera intoned amid the emotional chaos.
Michael rose and, with his hands planted on the table in front of him, begged the room for calm. “In every transition from war to peace or peace to war, there is chaos and confusion. Please, let us make a plan, form a committee here and now to preserve order in the government and in the country. We must hold ourselves together. We must be unified,” he urged, and for a moment there was a hopeful pause, an indrawn breath, a possibility to defy destiny.
“This is a betrayal,” a voice cried out from the gallery,